Trapped
by Cornelia Grayson
Summary: John's final moments... Rated M for angst and because I'm incredibly paranoid, and I don't want to scare small children. One-shot. Reviews, por favor?


**Sorry, for the angst in this. It's a bit OOC, but I hope you can see past it. I hope there's no real inaccuracy with the way I've portrayed his breakdown but if there is, feel free to let me know. Thanks to my wonderful beta Eeelneekey, to whom I dedicate this one shot, because I know how much he ships Watlock. Yes, it's a one shot, I forgot to mention that.**

**Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.**

Trapped. Behind bars. Can't move, can't breathe, not properly. I haven't been able to, not since he, since he… It's not fair. Why did he have to…? I still believe in him. He's mine and I'm his. We are part of each other. We could never just stop. We're connected, we always will be. So why did he…?

I dream about him every night. Falling. He's always falling. Sometimes he talks to me, explains, apologises… he doesn't need to. I try to tell him its okay, that he's safe now, and that we can stay together, if only he doesn't jump. But he doesn't listen. He jumps… he jumps. And I can't catch him. I try, I swear to God I try, but people get in my way, and then he's on the floor, dying. Blood pouring out of his head, a pool of the ground, getting larger and larger, dripping. Each drop is a drop of his life, running away from me. I should catch them, to get his life, to keep it safe for him, to bring it back, but I can't leave him… he needs me, now more than he ever has, more than he ever will again. And I have to choose, whether to stay with him, with the man I love, to share his last moments with him, or whether to save his life, to catch it in my hands, cradle it, keep it safe. And I always choose wrong. If I stay with him, he dies and leaves me alone. If I try to save his life, he lives but he doesn't remember me, and he leaves me alone again.

Other times, he's calm. He still falls, but he's calm. He's smiling, and I don't know why, until I see behind him a trail… a trail of all the lives he's ruined. All of the hearts he's broken. All of the families he's torn apart. I see the children, the one's he kidnapped, the ones he's seen die, and let die, because it's for the best. I see Jim Moriaty, his cold, dead body on the floor, blood surrounding him. Dead, because of Sherlock Holmes. Dead, because Sherlock Holmes scared him into it. And as he falls, him, the man I love, he laughs. Because he knows, and because I know, that when he hits the floor it's over. His struggle for power. He doesn't need to anymore because he's already won. He's hoodwinked them all: the government, the police, the papers. Hoodwinked Mycroft (who's the clever one now?), and hoodwinked me, hoodwinked John, the man who loved him unconditionally. And as he hits the floor, and as medics rush around him, I can't. Because if I do, it will kill me. To see the man I love, dead, as a criminal. As a liar.

Other nights I can't sleep. I lie awake, not eating, not sleeping. Not living. Wishing I was not breathing. He was my life. Without him, I'm nothing. He's dead. Dead. I can't cope without him. My life… it's not worth it. Not worth anything. I scream. My flashbacks get worse. I see them die. My friends, my colleagues. I see the men I've killed, I see the light leave their eyes, see the very moment when the life leaves their bodies. I hear it. The bone-sickening crunch. The final scream. The final breath. The noise I wish to hear every night, the noise I beg to hear coming out of my own my mouth because that noise will only mean one thing. That I'll join him again. Me and him.

The bars on the windows, they keep me sane. At least, saner. They stop me jumping out the window to join him. But then, they _stop_ me. I can no longer move, no longer be me, be John Watson. I see them it they remind me of him, and it hurts, it hurts in my chest, my head, my heart. My entire body aches and it never stops, never will. Because I will never stop loving him.

I sit there, during the day. Not talking. Not eating. They try, people, insignificant people, people who talk but never say, people who see but who do not observe. They try to get me to talk, to come out, but I won't. I can't. How can I have a life when he can't? I don't deserve one. I've never done anything, not like Sherlock. He is… he _was_ amazing. He saved lives, solved cases, saved the world in so many ways. And he saved me. I became a new person, a new person when I was with him, with Sherlock. Because we were John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John, Watson and Holmes, Holmes and Watson. We were two parts of a whole, and without him, I'm missing part of me. An arm, a leg, a lung, half a brain. A heart.

I trace the scars on my neck, the scars on my wrist. Those people don't understand. They say I'm depressed, that I'm loopy. Behind my back they whisper, but they don't understand. I just want to be with him, need to be with him. And this is the only way I can, I've tried but I can never reach him. Someone pulls me back at the last second. I can sense him and he can sense me. I hear him call out to me, hear his voice, feel the warmth of him. Of his chest, of his hugs, of his heart. I see him, his hair, his coat, his face. Those ears, that nose, those cheekbones. His eyes, full of love and warmth and brains and intelligence. His lips, which I know so well. But as I try to call out, to reach out, to say his name to grab him, hold him close to me and never let him go, someone's always there. Stopping us. Because they can never be happy for us, happy for me to have finally found someone, a man whom I love more than life itself, because they can never have what I have, because no one will ever love a man as much as I love Sherlock, and a man will never be loved as much as Sherlock loved me.

Tonight's the night. I know it is. I'm alone and can count the breaths I have left. Each second that ticks by is a second less I have to live, a second closer to Sherlock. The blood that drips down my neck, under my shirt, measures my love for him, and when it stops I'll be with him again. The knife on the floor, the knife that helped me, it's covered in my blood and I stare at it. And in it I see him. My Sherlock. And he sees me. And he reaches out, struggling, his face full of worry and concern, and full of love. And in his eyes I see him, the real him, the Sherlock only I've seen, and he's smiling, because he knows, as surely as I do, that at the end of tonight, we'll be together again. I hear him call my name, full of worry, full of fear, and I don't know why. As he takes me in his arms, they're too rough, not the gentle, caring Sherlock I know, but the arms of a stranger. The voice is too scared. And I suddenly know something's wrong. That they've come again, to take me back, to the land of the dead, where it's dark and cold and the future is bleak. Because without Sherlock I have no future. And I cry and scream and fight and beg as Sherlock gets further and further away from me. As I can no longer hear his voice. As his eyes fade and his arms retract and the comfort of him, of his mind, of his body, is no more. And as the world fades to black, I'm screaming. Because I know he's too far gone, that even if I succeed, I won't be with him. And I'm screaming for Sherlock, for our future, for the man I love.

And I'm screaming

**Hey, reviews are welcome. No, not welcome. Expected. No one reviews me. Please, it would make my day. :D**


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